


the passenger

by loudanimal



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Drinking, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Robot/Human Relationships, Spoilers for Act 1, Vomiting, dont mind me i am mentally unwell and entertaining thoughts of sweet sweet car love, getting a ride, real bad innuendos, you are V but you're not addressed as V
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28358088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loudanimal/pseuds/loudanimal
Summary: In which you are struck with the dawning realization that you are in love with a taxi.
Relationships: Delamain/Reader, Delamain/V
Comments: 21
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

You call Delamain because you've had too much to see straight, let aone drive, and that's a new one for you 'cause it's not like you're a lightweight and it certainly isn't as though you're opposed to driving under the influence. Shit happens, y'know? 

Unfortunately, though, you are _out_ of it tonight. You can't really recall which drink it was, precisely, that did you in, but by the time you're careening half-blind out of the loud and thrumming club and onto the rain-slicked pavement, it doesn't matter. All that matters is getting home in one piece. The sleek body of the cab pulls up and you swear it feels instantaneous but you're really not sure _how_ much time has passed. Your phone is buzzing with notifications that you're ignoring for now. Your head is buzzing with thoughts that have no shape. Your stomach...

Fuck, what _did_ you drink?

One of the back doors opens automatically before you're done recalling everything you drank that night and you collapse, boneless, into the back seat. The inside of the car is warm and inviting and it smells like how brand new cars always do even though you're pretty positive this isn't a brand new car, but, shit, what do you know? Delamain greets you as you're getting comfortable sprawled across the back seat and he rattles off something you don't care about because it's getting in the way of your relaxation, but then he goes at it _again_ so you open your eyes, meeting the placid digital gaze of the man in the rearview mirror-screen.

"Mmwha'?" You slur, wondering if it'd be too weird to take your shoes off. 

"Where do you want to go?" Delamain repeats, curt and kind and professional. _Reliable._

"Dude, you are...so reliable." You compliment sleepily, spilling your thoughts without hesitation. "Wanna go home _pleeaase._ "

"Customer satisfaction has been noted." He chimes. You've taken your shoes off and are so much more comfier now. You always have the _best_ ideas and none of them are ever weird. You feel amazing. The car is moving, now, and your head swims as you watch the lights outside blur and dance past the windows.

"Hey Del? Del." You poke your toes into the back of the passenger side seat as if this is somehow an actuon that he'll be able to feel. You wonder if he _can_ feel. Probably not, because that'd be super weird, but then, what if—

"Yes?" Delamain responds just as you round a corner, smooth as can be. No bumpy rides from _this_ service. Well, barring...

You feel sick in your stomach and chest and it's not something that you can blame on the drinks. You don't want to think about Jackie or the blood on his lips or the light leaving his eyes moments after he clumsily slots the biochip into your head but here you are, and you've forgotten what you were going to ask Del, and...and.

"Nothin'." Your voice is smaller suddenly. 

"Is there something wrong?" The cab has slowed to a halt before a red light. You squirm, trying to get comfortable. Trying not to think too hard. Trying your _best._ You feel considerably less amazing.

"Thank you, I guess. Dunno if I said that yet. You, uh. You came through, for uh...for me 'n Jack. Did your best, at least." You pat the car seat firmly, swallowing a lump in your throat. "An' then again when I was dying." The car is moving again. Slow. You can hear the hum of the engine and you swear it creeps into your head. Everything hums soft. More lights flash past, casting you in blues and reds and yellows. Night City thrums with harsh light and angry life and it's out there, waiting for you to spill back into it, with all your grief and your confusion and your short little lifespan glaring you in the face. You're not looking forward to leaving the car.

"We offer only the best treatment for members of the Excelsior package." Is the predictable response. You shut your eyes. "And...I _am_ sorry that we could not take Mr. Welles to receive proper care. Had I been allowed to work against my itinerary, rest assured that I would have been of more use to you both."

You don't open your eyes again, but surprise wriggles through your drunken haze. The apology doesn't fix anything. It won't take away the memory of him slumped over, falling into your hands. His last stop on the way to the major leagues. It means more to you than you had realized just to hear it, though. 

"Thanks, Del. _Thank you._ "

At the very least, you're glad to have someone— _something?_ —who will talk to you about it. You love Mama Welles and Misty with all your heart and then some, but they weren't _there._ They didn't have to hold him as he died. They didn't hear you begging him to stay awake.

And Johnny...you're sure he's seen that memory, but he hasn't said much about it, and besides, you hate him and you're sure that the feeling's mutual. You don't want _his_ stupid consolation, not that he'd ever give it.

So here you are, getting teary-eyed in the back of a taxi because it's the closest thing you feel like you have to a proper shoulder to cry on but more importantly because you're drunk off your ass and nobody's here to stop you. And the seats are _mad_ comfortable. And your head is still spinning, and the warmth is seeping all the way in, and you're so, _so_ tired...

"We've arrived at your destination."

You sigh, feeling defeated and deflated. You don't want to get up. Your shoes are off and you've been crying and you're _warm_ and you just. Don't. _Want._

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

"I...Can I stay in here, Del? Please? Just for the night. 'M just so tired, and you're... _cool_ , and..." You feel weak and embarrassed just asking but you ask anyway. You're going to regret it in the morning, absolutely, but you're not really considering anything but the here and now. And you don't even reall want to untangle the true depth of this burgeoning attachment to Delamain you've just realized because that is a _wild_ road to go down and you can't exactly rely on your thoughts to be private nowadays. That Johnny hasn't blinked into being and started dragging you to hell and back for all your moping already feels a little _too_ lucky. 

There's a very long and very uncomfortable silence before you get your response.

"You've been drinking, haven't you?"

"Mm. Perceptive." You mumble, rubbing your eyes. 

"If that's the case, then it wouldn't be...safe, to travel alone in your state." He says it in that same put-together tone that he says _everything_ in, so it's hard, but after really mulling it over you almost want to call bullshit. It really isn't a long trip up to your apartment, and almost everybody in the megabuilding not only knows you, but knows not to fuck with you, but...

Hey. Gift horse, mouth.

"Yeah. Wouldn't be safe...be real dangerous, matter a' fact." You nod gravely, cheek rubbing against the seat. The car moves again, tires rolling on wet pavement. They might as well be a hundred miles away. Your entire world has come fown to the small interior of the cab and the digital face in the mirror. "You should keep me safe, Del. Pretty good at that."

"Yes," Comes the response as the car turns completely, headed steadily off someplace ese. _Someplace safe._ "I believe I am."

You wish you had a snarky or even mildly cool reply for that and you wish it didn't make you feel the way that it inexplicably did— _later you will blame this on the drinking_ —, and you wish and wish and wish until you're fast asleep, drooling on the seats and feeling safer than you have in a long, long time. 

Night City can wait for you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feelin compelled to put an emeto warning. this chapter's got some puke in it.

Morning comes violently and in waves, quite like your post-crazy-night-out-sickness. You're lucky enough that you can claw open the door and lean yourself out, red in the face while you chuck bitter acid up onto the asphalt. 

"Good morning!" Delamain's chipper voice pitches in over the speakers. Through a head that feels like it's being forcibly split apart ( _you suppose it sort of is, these days_ ) you can vaguely recall begging to sleep the night in the backseat and, lo and behold, you _do_ regret it. It was nice, cozier than sleeping sideways on your bed even, but there's this soft, persistent shame that comes creeping up the back of your neck, and you're not quite certain what that's all about. "The time is currently ten fifty-six, AM. How are you feeling?"

"Nngh," You gurgle in response, trying to clumsily wriggle backwards into the car and pull the door shut at the same time. It eventually closes all on its own, willed shut by Delamain, and you can focus on yourself. You collapse back into place, clutching at your head. Everything hurts and you want to die. A blaring red notification blips across your optics as if to remind you that, pretty soon, you may have no choice in that matter. _Relic Malfunction Detected._

You cough hard, spluttering into your fist. You don't check for the blood that you know is there. "Fuck. _Fuck_ , Del, where are we?"

"We are currently parked in the Watson District, across the way from Tom's Diner. Would you prefer to be taken somewhere else?"

"N-No, that's uh...that's preem, thanks." You shut your eyes, breathing raggedly trying to will the heavy pounding in your skull away. Talk about convenient. Something hot and greasy from Tom's should be a good first step in wiping your hangover away. You hold yourself upright to avoid sinking back into the seat and conking out again, blearily opening your eyes and looking forward through the digital fuzz that shudders across your vision courtesy of the faulty chip in your head. You don't quite make eye contact with the face in the rearview or any of the additional faces on the other screens in here, either, though you're almost positive they're all looking directly at you. The thought of eye contact with him right now makes your stomach twist strangely. "Mhh...shit, uh, what do I owe you for an overnight?" _And a ride to breakfast,_ you note inwardly. Night City's most capable chaffeur has your back yet again. You could almost get used to the special treatment, but you're not stupid enough to assume that your coddling is free of charge. 

"Consider this a complimentary service." _Oh._ Okay. 

"For...uhm, for why?" You ask, squinting through the windshield at all the people moving past, paying you and the armored cab no mind. Your mouth feels remarkably dry for having just been full of puke and your top lip is wet with—

Ah. More blood. _Another nosebleed._

"You still have access to our Excelsior package, and as such, are privy to special benefits reserved for our more elite clientele." There's a short pause. "You appear...unwell. If there is anything that I can assist you with, might I remind you that I am capable of offering a wide range of medical—"

" _No._ No, I'm fine. I'll be fine." You won't, but no amount of fancy taxi benefits can fix what's wrong with you. A compartment pops open near your knee and you wordlessly peek inside. There's a stash of those little travel-sized tissue packs. You waste no time in ripping one open, wiping your face, and then stuffing tissues up your nostrils. 

"Y'know, I sorta thought _Excelsior_ was a one time thing. Guy who paid for it's dead, now." You only wish you had pulled the trigger on Dex and flatlined him yourself, but that wasn't quite what mattered at the moment. "Also didn't know it meant I'd be getting all these freebies." You add, trying to be nonchalant and cool with your prying questions despite the tissues sticking out of your nose. "Kinda just...thought it meant you'd spit out a band-aid or tissues at me if I needed it." _And dispose of me if I die in here._ Memories of Jackie and crying over him resurface faintly and you're suddenly red all over with the shame from before. Of all the inopportune ways and times to break down...

"You needn't worry. While Dexter DeShawn is no longer a paying customer, _you_ are still listed in my database as a high priority patron." Delamain explains. The tissue compartment closes.

"Uh...huh. When's the expiration date on that listing, then?" You press, eyebrows rising just slightly. 

"There isn't one." He replies primly, though if you were looking, you might have caught how his digital reflections all sharply glance away from you. 

"Is that? _Normal?_ " It doesn't _sound_ normal and neither, for that matter, does having your heart do a little flip over hearing that kind of news. Maybe you just really love a good deal ( _almost as much as you love kidding yourself_ ).

"It isn't an option available to most customers, but never mind that. Tom's Diner stops serving from the breakfast menu at eleven thirty. You may want to hurry."

 _Is this allowed?_ An AI has just declared that you, alone, get special car privileges and then refused to elaborate. This isn't just that you had gotten lucky with a pre-paid service like he kept insisting—this has all been some downright preferential treatment. On one hand, you're elated and flattered and a little bit something else that's gonna need a few cups of coffee before you really feel comfortable figuring it out. On the other hand, you're paranoid. Are you being fucked with? You _must_ be being fucked with.

"No, you're just being hit on by a car. Now get out and go get us a coffee. I can taste _your_ vomit."

Johnny has taken this opportunity to finally appear outside the vehicle, though you can still hear him perfectly clear. He's leaning over, tapping a metal knuckle against the window. You choke on your own spit and Delamain notices.

"Is something the matter? Would you like to go someplace else?"

"Nnnnope! This is perfect, Del. Thank you. Owe you one, or two, or...a dozen, or...hey, I'll catch you later. Maybe." You stammer, finally grasping for the door handle and swinging it open.

"I look forward to serving you again! And remember, with Delamain, you can leave your problems at the door."

You gracelessly manage to avoid stepping in your own vomit as you hop out. Johnny's form flickers and he's suddenly another foot or so away, standing by the curb. He's not looking at you, and between the dark aviators and all the smoke around his face from a cigarette he's conjured up, you can't make out his expression, though if you had to guess, he was annoyed. You suppose you would be, too, if you had to experience someone else's hangover sickness as your own, but you're not about to start feeling bad for Johnny Silverhand. 

You snort around the wet, bunched up tissues crammed in your face.

"Coffee. _Now._ " Johnny reminds you with the same urgency as all those times he'd begged you for a smoke.

"D'you uh. Really think Del was hitting on me?" You ask cautiously, making your way in the right direction. It's awfully uncharacteristic of you and you feel stupid doing it, but you don't have anyone else to talk to about this, and you _desperately_ want to talk about it. Because it was weird as hell. No other reason.

Johnny throws his head back and groans like you're killing him. 

"Yeah, I do, and I think _you_ were eating it up. Think you could also be doing worse than a car in this place, but I'm not about to condone anything. Just wish you'd try and figure this all out sometime when I'm _not_ trapped in your backwards fucking psyche."

"Oh, piss off." You seethe internally once you step into the diner. You've already had one embarrassing outburst in here, don't need another. You keep your lips sealed. 

"Would that I could." 

"And he's not _just_ a car, you know." You continue. "He's an AI, just...happens to run a taxi service, is all."

"One car, several cars, what's the difference besides the number of wheels you're hoping to be trapped under?" He shrugs, kicking his feet up on the corner of the table. 

You nearly have a full-blown episode at that visual, clutching the edge of the table that you've claimed a seat at hard and gritting your teeth to keep from snapping something out loud at the digital ghost who now occupies the booth across from you, still puffing away on his nonexistent cigarette. With all the muscles in your jaw locked tight, you glare daggers and bloody murder into him.

"I'm not _hoping_ for... _anything_ like that."

"Whatever. Just, if and when you do decide to fuck a car, can you make sure to take enough of those pills to put me under for a week?" He's slid his aviators off, or maybe just disappearified them because you're now realizing that you don't know where he set them, just that they're not on his face anymore. 

"Johnny, that's _sick_. And impossible." You shoot back just as a woman finally swings by to get your order.

"Gearshift."

Never before in your life have you ever wanted to physically maul a man so badly, and you _can't_ , and it's just _so unfair._ You order coffee and pancakes so tensely that the waitress probably thinks you want her dead by the time she leaves. You look back at Johnny, who isn't paying attention to you anymore until you kick the seat across from you.

"I ordered the coffee. Can you go now?" 

"Yeah. You've clearly got a few things you're dying to think on in private. Don't wanna be here for any vehicle-fetish epiphanies." He stands up from the booth as if he could _actually_ leave this establishment—and you—behind. You wish for probably the thousandth time that he really could. Right as Johnny blinks out of sight, you gingerly pull the red-tipped tissues out of your nostrils, staring down at the pock-marked table. 

You do have a lot to think about.


End file.
